


Berg's Violin Concerto No. 2

by I_am_lampy



Series: After All These Years [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Sexual Fantasy, a little fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-02
Updated: 2017-04-02
Packaged: 2018-10-13 22:01:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10522764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_am_lampy/pseuds/I_am_lampy
Summary: It's summer in the city. Sherlock is hot, sticky and bored. Then he gets an ominous text suggesting John's been kidnapped. (AGAIN??)





	

It was summer in London and it was hot. The temperature had hovered between thirty and thirty-five degrees Celsius for two weeks. The close air of the city was like a miasma. Sherlock had just come home from the Yard and his shirt-sleeves were rolled up, and he hated having his shirt sleeves rolled up. It felt too much like being _undressed_.

It wasn't just hot – it was humid, too. The heat stuck to his skin, his clothes stuck to his skin, his _skin_ stuck to his skin. His thoughts were sluggish, as though the humidity had seeped into his brain and his thoughts had gotten waterlogged as a result. And there were no cases. There hadn't been any cases for over a month. The only good thing about the miserable heat was that people were much more likely to commit murder because of it. Sherlock was hoping for a good murder.

He slammed into the building and stomped up the stairs to the flat, making the maximum amount of noise he could for the simple reason that he was hot and sticky and bored and he wanted to annoy people. The windows in the flat were open in an attempt to circulate air. There was a fan in the sitting room, noisy and bothersome, blowing lukewarm air around and sending random papers and bits of fluff airborne, which then fell in an irritating snowfall, piling up in drifts in the corners of the sitting room.

It had been a miserable week at home, as well. Sherlock had been impatient with Rosie several times that week and snapped at her and then she had cried and he had apologized and then she had done something else and he had snapped at her again and the whole thing went round and round. John stayed quiet and thin-lipped, playing mediator when necessary but otherwise staying out of it.

Sherlock knew John was trying to give him the room to establish his own authority with Rosie now that they were co-parents. Sherlock was doing his best but he could see why people beat their kids, really, he could. She could be a nasty little beast sometimes, their Rosie. She was almost four years old and had a tendency to strong-arm her way through any conflict, like a tiny thug.

Then she would call him _Shaddy_ , which was what she sometimes called him when she wasn't paying attention, a combination of _Sherlock_ and _Daddy_ that would freeze Sherlock in place and make him want to cover his face with his hands and weep with joy on the spot. God, he was an idiot for these Watsons.

Sherlock had been sleeping on the couch in the sitting room because their bedroom windows let in almost no air and having to lay next to another hot body was a misery. John was the one who had kicked him downstairs and even though Sherlock had wanted to go, it still made him feel sulky that John had sent him away. Of course everything was making him feel sulky because it was _hot_ and _humid_ and he was _bored_. His mobile phone chimed.

**JW: if you love him be here in ten minutes**

Sherlock froze in the doorway of the kitchen. The text was from John's phone but it didn't make sense. Then another text, a photo.

Sherlock closed his eyes once and then called out "John?" but there was no response except for the susurration of the fan and the dry scrape of random papers rubbing against each other as the air passed by them. Sherlock's mouth was immediately dry. _Not again_ , he thought _, not again, not again_.

He opened the photo. An alley. He knew where it was. He looked closer at the skip in the photo. A shape…that shirt… _John_.

Sherlock was out of the flat, pounding down the stairs and out into the street before he had even formulated the thought to do so.

* * *

 

When he reached the alley there was nobody there.

"John!" Sherlock called. He held up his phone and looked again at the photo. Yes, this was the right alley. Where was he?

There were four separate skips. Sherlock jogged down the alley, looking behind each one and when he didn't find John, he moved to the next.

"John!" he cried.

The third skip. Sherlock thought he saw a foot or maybe it was just a shoe. Christ, he needed to have his eyes checked. The buildings seemed to lean precariously close to one another, like they were whispering, conspiring against him. The skip was set at an angle that put all of the wall behind it in shadow. It was a very dark shadow, and Sherlock felt he was about to look into some dark wound in the world, a place that ate lost children and lost lovers.

"John?" Sherlock asked, crouching down, reaching behind where he thought he had seen John's shoe. He picked it up. Brown leather. It was John's but John wasn't there. Sherlock hung his head.

When he felt the sting of the needle in his neck, he tried to corkscrew his body to allow him to pull the needle out and to get the most out of the momentum of his body to fight off his attacker before the drugs hit his system. But what he saw didn't make sense.

"John?" he asked, his hands and face immediately numb.

"Berg," the man said as Sherlock started falling. The attacker looked just like John.

"What?" Sherlock asked and the man caught him and lowered him gently to the ground.

"Berg," said the John-attacker. "Violin Concerto No. 2"

"Oh," Sherlock said and his eyes slid shut.

* * *

 

When he woke, it was blessedly cool. He was laying on a bed, soft sheets. He couldn't see. And he was naked.

Sherlock tried to sit up and take off his blindfold at the same time, only to discover his hands were tied down, as were his feet. He tugged on the restraints; they were loose and comfortable but he wasn't going anywhere. His foot started to itch. Of course it would start to itch when he couldn't scratch the damn thing.

"Hello," someone said nearby. A man. American accent. Something about his voice sounded familiar.

"Where's John?" Sherlock asked, his head turning towards the voice.

"He's here. He's safe," the man said, his voice closer.

"What do you want?" Sherlock asked, tugging on his restraints, even though he knew it was pointless.

"Are you thirsty? I don't want you to overheat."

"Overheat?"

Sherlock felt the bed dip, felt the man lean close to him and then there was a straw at his lips. He jerked his head away.

"It's just water," the man said and again held the straw to Sherlock's lips.

Sherlock drank and moved his head away when he was finished. He heard the clink of a cup being set onto a glass table. He could feel the man moving around on the bed, as though he was considering Sherlock from every angle. He couldn't hear the rustle of his clothes or the tick of a watch. When the man's leg brushed Sherlock's he realized why.

Sherlock wasn't the only naked person on this bed.

"Who are you? What do you want?" Sherlock asked again, yanking on his restraints. "What have you done with John?"

He felt the man put a hand on either side of Sherlock's head, felt the way the bed moved with the motion. Sherlock thought he could bite him if he could get him close enough. It was like he could feel the man's face hovering just above his.

"Who are you?" Sherlock hissed.

"Berg," the man said and he sounded so much like John, like an American version of John.

"Berg? The composer?" Sherlock asked, confused, wondering if he was hallucinating? Was it the drugs they had given him?

A mouth pressed against his neck and Sherlock flinched away.

"Violin Concerto No. 2," the voice whispered near Sherlock's ear.

"John," Sherlock whispered, sagging with relief. And then came the anger. "You – _bastard_! Come over here so I can head butt you! I thought you had been kidnapped again!"

"You said you were bored," John said, laughing, and Sherlock snapped his teeth in the direction of his voice.

"I wasn't _that_ bored!" Sherlock shouted.

He felt John move next to him, could feel the energy of his body coiling and mixing with his own and the adrenaline that had been fueling Sherlock's fear transformed instantly into a raging lust and he began to get hard.

"Are you sure you want to go home?" John whispered from above him.

Sherlock sighed noisily and waited. And then waited some more.

"Sherlock," John said, but it wasn't the everyday John speaking.

 _This_ John was dangerous. His voice was softly menacing; this voice told you that when you had written off the man before you as unassumingly mediocre, you had made a grave mistake. You had shown your soft belly to a sheep who turned out to be a wolf.

"Sherlock, do you want me to untie you and take you home?" the dangerous John asked.

Sherlock stayed silent, fighting his own stubborn pride. They both knew that this was Sherlock's fantasy. After all, he was the one who had assigned it its violin solo code name. They both knew that Sherlock did _not_ want to be untied and taken home. They both knew that Sherlock was presenting a painfully erect penis. But Sherlock did not want to _admit_ it.

"Sherlock," John whispered, in that same dangerous voice.

Sherlock betrayed himself by the way his body lifted up towards the sound of John's voice.

"Not talking? Tsk tsk," John said, enjoying himself far too much for Sherlock's taste.

John's lips met his, a glancing touch and then they were away again and Sherlock strained towards them and only when John laughed, his face right above him, did Sherlock make any noise.

"Of course I don't want you to bloody untie me and take me home!" he thundered and then collapsed back against the bed as though admitting he wanted the fantasy was too much for him to bear.

"Poor Sherlock," John whispered, his cheek sliding against Sherlock's, their skin rough with stubble.

John's lips ran along Sherlock's jaw and he swallowed. A hot palm landed on Sherlock's lower abdomen, startling him. Then another. Both sliding up Sherlock's stomach to his chest.

The bed moved and John was straddling him. He could feel John's cock against his belly, could feel _his_ cock tapping against John's backside.

Sherlock felt his mouth go dry and his head was spinning. He realized he hadn't drawn a breath.

John bent down and put his lips against Sherlock's ear, making Sherlock shiver and lean into the touch.

"Saint-Saëns," John whispered in Sherlock's ear.

"No," Sherlock whispered back, turning his head towards John. "Now? Like this?"

Saint-Saëns was a composer. John's fantasy. When Sherlock had made the list, they weren't really being serious so when John said _this probably doesn't count as a fantasy since we're gay_ , Sherlock had looked up, startled. _What do you mean?_ he asked. _Anal sex_ , John had said, blushing so beautifully. _It's a pretty boring fantasy for a gay man_ , he had added.

And there it was – the final question. It had hung between them for months now, close to a year. If they were men and they were in love with each other and they had sex with each other, it meant they were gay, right? But did being gay mean they should have anal sex? If they didn't have it, did it mean they _weren't_ gay?

Sherlock didn't want it done to him but he was only too eager to do it to John. But John was the one who had spent his entire life heterosexual so it felt wrong to ask John to allow him to do it.

And they didn't _need_ it. An orgasm was just as good whether you were coming into someone's hand or their mouth or by your own hand onto them or near them. Or even in the same room as them. There was really no limit on the imagination when it came to two men finding ways to make each other come and neither of them needed an arsehole to do it.

But it wasn't the kind of fantasy one undertook lightly. An arse, as John had pointed out, is nothing like a vagina. Vaginas are designed to give a little. Arseholes are designed for the complete opposite. But there was _also_  no doubt in either of their minds that the potential for great pleasure was there for both of them.

John was a doctor so he knew these things. They taught you how to make your male patients feel less humiliated about getting an erection when you stimulated their prostate. John was _well_ aware of the pleasure potential there.

Sherlock was not a doctor but he was a…curious bastard so he had looked these things up on the Internet.

They had left it behind in the realm of fantasy, those things that would be really, super, fun to do but only to be used in a state of emergency, i.e., absolute and total relational meltdown as a result of boredom. Or as a result of Rosie and Sherlock going at each other's throats for a week.

 _Ah_ , Sherlock thought. _He needs a fantasy, too_.

"I won't do it tied up," Sherlock said. "I want to be able to touch you and see you."

"I don't want you to see me," John said ruefully, his face pressed into Sherlock's neck.

The scary John, the one full of latent danger, had gone away and left behind Sherlock's John, the man he loved so completely but who was so shy that even when Sherlock was blindfolded and tied down, John had to hide his face in Sherlock's neck.

"Come on, darling, untie me," Sherlock said and they both froze at the endearment.

Sherlock had joked that relationships were all well and good as was getting off on a regular basis – nobody could say no to that – _well, you did, for your whole life_ John had pointed out – but _pet names_ and _endearments_ were strictly prohibited.

"Did you just – " John asked, sitting up.

"Well, you were – " Sherlock said at the same time.

Then there was silence for a minute before Sherlock spoke again.

"You have my sincerest apologies. It will never happen again," Sherlock said and then laughed, the sound building inside of him.

"Shut up, you," John said and cut Sherlock's restraints. "Keep the blindfold on, mind!" he added when Sherlock started to pull it away.

In minutes Sherlock had the use of his limbs again. As soon as he felt John kneel on the bed, he lunged for him and flipped John underneath him.

"You are a very bad man," Sherlock said and aimed his lips for John's but hit his forehead instead. "My God, did you get _shorter_  since I saw you last?"

"Fuck you," John said, laughing in that way he had which was mostly silent; but Sherlock could feel the laughter in John's body.

"Oh, no, _darling_ ," Sherlock said. "I believe it is _I_ who shall fuck _you_. Where are we anyway?"

"Mycroft's," Johns said.

Sherlock ripped off his blindfold to see John shaking with silent laughter underneath him.

"Oh, that was an awful trick to play," Sherlock said.

They were in a boring old hotel room.

"How on earth did you get a drugged man into a hotel room without – "

"Mycroft," John said and Sherlock glared at him while John laughed so hard, the bed was shaking.

"I take my love back," Sherlock said, moving off of John. "I can't believe you brought my brother in on our sexual play."

"Oh, he doesn't know it was you."

"Really?" Sherlock asked in astonishment, standing up. "And he didn't ask any questions? He helped you carry an unconscious man into a hotel and didn't ask _why_?"

"Oh, _he_ didn't do anything. _He_ sat in his office and sent two of his goons around. They carried you, very discreetly for goons, through the servant's entrance and up the service elevator and then deposited you here."

"Oh, very well done, you," Sherlock said, kneeling back on the bed. "I hate to be impatient but when you said Saint-Saëns, did you mean it?"

John covered his face with both hands which had the same effect on Sherlock that his blushing did. That is, Sherlock wanted to lay him out naked and push past the blushing and the shyness and uncover the thing that had teeth and claws and that whispered filthy things in Sherlock's ears whilst stroking his cock or tangled his hands in Sherlock's hair so that he could fuck Sherlock's mouth with reckless greed.

Sherlock grabbed John by the ankles and yanked him down so that he was laid out on the bed. John yelped and threw his arms wide to catch himself, thereby showing his face, which was what Sherlock wanted to see.

"John," he said slowly.

"Yes, yes. I did. Only you're – "

"Only I'm what?" Sherlock asked, sitting back on his heels.

"I mean, do you have to look so bloody hungry for it? My God, you're practically drooling," John said, waving his hand in the direction of Sherlock's face.

"Oh, I don't doubt it," Sherlock said, and licked his lips. He understood what John was feeling, understood his embarrassment. He was, quite literally, a blushing bride, although not in the traditional sense of course. He was a virgin, ripe for Sherlock's plucking. Or fucking, as it were. Oh, that was terrible, even in his own head.

"John," he said, waving away anything John might have been saying. "I want to fuck you. I have wanted to fuck you since – well, probably long before you knew you wanted to be fucked by me so, very, very long time. No matter how you dress it up, I am _all in_ here. No pun intended."

"Christ," John said, wiping his hand over his face.

"I really didn't mean to make – "

"Yes, yes, I'm sure. You were saying?"

"John," he said gently, wanting very badly to call John _darling_ again. "The question is, do you want it?"

John looked at him, looked straight at Sherlock's face and even though he was blushing as he said it, he didn't hide behind his hands or look away or avoid Sherlock's heavy gaze in any way.

"Yes, _darling_. I do."

Sherlock clapped his hands and then rubbed them together gleefully before looking around.

"Where's the lube?" he asked, grinning lasciviously.

**Author's Note:**

> Forgive me for all the foreplay and no action but I really felt y'all needed a cliffhanger. (Plus, I have to go to bed. I've been typing Johnlock for two days straight now and given myself a migraine.) Don't worry, the boys will get their jollies in the next episode. And then I might even write some stuff that's NOT smut!  
> *******************************  
> I always welcome emails from readers about anything that tickles your fancy, even if it's just randomness!
> 
> archiveofMYown@gmail.com


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